


A quiet death

by Saetha



Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [10]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (you don't need to squint very hard lmao), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Death Mention, Emotional Manipulation, FebuWhump2021, Gen, Geralt/Eskel if you squint, Graphic Injury, Guilt, Hurt Eskel (The Witcher), Hurt/Comfort, Kaer Morhen, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Papa Vesemir, Protective Witchers (The Witcher), Self-Hatred, Survivor Guilt, Winter At Kaer Morhen, no beta we die like Vesemir DIDN’T I REFUSE TO ACCEPT THIS, not everything is as it seems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29331960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: “Shhh.” Geralt reaches out, waiting for the boy to flinch away, but he doesn’t. He pats his shoulder. “I’m sorry. You’re safe here, now, with us. What’s your name?”“Ardyn.” The boy sniffles a little. Vesemir tries to hide his sharp intake of breath but doesn’t succeed. Not to a Witcher’s hearing, at least.“Ardyn.” Geralt tries to put the warmest smile on his face that he is capable of. “As I said, you’re safe here. You can stay as long as you need. Right, Vesemir?”*Lambert finds a little boy in the snow and brings him home to Kaer Morhen. The Witchers, especially Vesemir, take care of him – but not everything goes as smoothly as it should. Something is very, very wrong.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert & Vesemir, Eskel & Vesemir (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir, Lambert & Vesemir (The Witcher)
Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138178
Comments: 16
Kudos: 49
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	A quiet death

**Author's Note:**

> Did I mention that I have a lot of Papa Vesemir feels? Because there’s a LOT more where that came from. I'm quite happy with how this one turned out, fuelled as it was by my love for horror movies and classic ghost stories. In fact, I got a bit too carried away, and this fic turned out to be so long that it messed with my carefully thought out Febuwhump writing plan 😂 ('I'll try and keep fics between 2-3k for each day to keep the writing load manageable' he said. He failed, miserably, on Day 3 already).
> 
> This is like…the conclusion of the dead children’s trilogy for the Witcher in my fics, I guess. Uh. We’re going slightly less angsty and more physically whump from tomorrow on! Today's prompt was: "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

It is Lambert who finds him, on one of his many runs through the mountains around Kaer Morhen on the Killer, before the snowfalls will make it impossible to pass and lock them all inside the keep for a few months. A young boy, barely six summers old, stumbling around on the Killer half starved. The bones stand out starkly against his sunken face and there is an unhealthy sheen to his eyes. Vesemir takes one look at him, one of his hands clenching into a fist, before he orders Eskel to stoke the fires in the Main Hall and calls to Geralt to help him in the kitchen.

Half an hour later the boy has almost stopped shivering, wrapped safely into some furs and sat as close to the fire as possible. He drinks the hot broth that Vesemir passes to him with a grateful smile, and something about him seems to slip straight past the old Witcher’s walls. Geralt watches as the shadow of an old pain passes through his eyes, but it is gone too quickly for him to ask about. And anyway, the child in front of them is far more important.

Geralt kneels in front of the boy.

“Where are your parents? The rest of your family?” he asks him softly. The boy looks at him, eyes large and growing larger as he takes in Geralt’s bone-white hair, the yellow of his eyes, the scars on his face. He shakes his head, face scrunching up a little.

“Me Ma died when I was little,” he says, looking down at the bowl in his hands, instead of at Geralt. “An’ Pa went out hunting three weeks ago, never came back. Thought I’d go an’ find him, but there was nothing but bones. There’s nobody else.”

“Shhh.” Geralt reaches out, waiting for the boy to flinch away, but he doesn’t. He pats his shoulder. “I’m sorry. You’re safe here, now, with us.” _And everybody who could hurt you, could make you go through the Trials, is dead now_ , he thinks. “What’s your name?”

“Ardyn.” The boy sniffles a little. Vesemir tries to hide his sharp intake of breath but doesn’t succeed. Not to a Witcher’s hearing, at least.

“Ardyn.” Geralt tries to put the warmest smile on his face that he is capable of. “As I said, you’re safe here. You can stay as long as you need. Right, Vesemir?”

Vesemir, who has only watched them thus far, shakes himself as if coming out of a stupor. Geralt has rarely seen his old mentor this speechless, this vulnerable. It is as if something about Ardyn’s presence has stripped him of all his defences and aged him by decades.

“Yes, of course,” he finally forces out, coming around so that Ardyn can see him. “Our home is yours, for as long as you need.”

“Thank you,” Ardyn says honestly. Later, when he is passed out from exhaustion and buried under a mountain of furs in one of the cots they dragged into the main hall, right next to the fire, Geralt pulls Vesemir aside. Eskel and Lambert come with him, crowding into their space, all three of them with the same question for him on their lips. He answers them before they can even ask it.

“He reminds me of an Ardyn I knew once. Long ago, before you youngsters ever came to Kaer Morhen.” _Before the massacre_. He doesn’t add it, but they can all hear the words nonetheless. Vesemir shakes his head, as if trying to dislodge his thoughts. “It was over a century ago. Perhaps they are related somehow; I don’t know.”

“Well, we can hardly send him somewhere else now,” Eskel states, quite matter-of-factly. “Perhaps, when the spring comes again, we can ask around in the village, see if anybody’s willing to take him in. There’ll be storms soon enough, and no guarantee we could make it there and back right now.”

“Yes,” Vesemir sighs, rubbing his face. “It is probably just a coincidence, is all.”

“Don’t fret, old man.” Lambert claps their mentor on the shoulder, one of his rare smiles flickering over his face. “The kid will be just fine.”

“Of course.” Vesemir offers him a half-sincere smile before returning to the cot, checking on Ardyn who still seems to be deeply asleep, his breathing and heartbeat slow and steady. Geralt walks up next to him, consciously sniffing the air, unable to find anything amiss. Ardyn smells like a normal, six-year-old child – a traumatised, malnourished one, yes, but nothing non-human. His medaillon also remains completely still on his chest, indicating no more than the usual background noise of magic in the keep. Nothing out of the ordinary at all, safe for the slight pull of weirdness Geralt can feel in his stomach that puts him on edge.

Despite the apparent normality of the next few days, Geralt can never quite shake the same faint sense of unease lingering at the edge of his senses. He knows the others feel the same, can see it in the way that Eskel is more reserved than usual, less ready to smile or laugh, can hear it in the way that Lambert withdraws to the alchemy lab more often to play with his explosives. Vesemir seems to be the only one not to be affected by it, although he has had at least a century more practise in hiding his emotions than all the others do.

Instead of worrying, Vesemir is busy with doting on Ardyn instead who seems to blossom under his care. It has been a long time since a child’s laughter has resounded through the keep, and Vesemir appears to revel in it. He teaches the boy to help him cook, and how to muck out the stables and help with the many other chores around the Keep. From time to time, he even imparts a few lessons in swordplay to him, although they bear little resemblance to any of the rigorous training he had put Geralt and the other children through when they were Ardyn’s age. As always, Geralt is unable to tell whether Vesemir is longing to have the old times back where the keep was full life and laughter and he knew there would be Witchers for many generations to come; or whether he is glad that he will see no more boys put through the horror of the Trials, the lives that he had protected and nurtured so carefully snuffed out with little care in the span of days. Perhaps both, Geralt muses when he watches the care with which Vesemir guides Ardyn’s movements.

“Haven’t seen the old man this happy in a while,” Lambert murmurs one evening when the three of them are nursing some White Gull, watching as Vesemir teaches Ardyn about the identity and properties of the dried herbs he has brought up from the laboratory. 

“Yeah.” Eskel smiles just a little, although there is still a frown painted on his forehead.

“I remember how he used to read to us some nights,” Lambert continues. He is in a talkative mood tonight, and something tells Geralt that it isn’t just the drink. There is something bothering his brother. “Always thought those were the best damn evenings.”

Geralt huffs out a little laugh and an agreement. He remembers those nights as well, all the young boys piled up next to and on top of each other in front of the roaring fire of the main hall, hanging on Vesemir’s lips as he read them one story after another. He’d stolen his way in front of the fire when he had technically been far too old for those stories, sitting just outside the circle of the light and using his newly enhanced senses to listen to Vesemir’s quiet voice. He knows he wasn’t the only one; he spied Eskel there once or twice, too, and other Witchers who had come home to overwinter at the keep.

They watch Ardyn and Vesemir for a while longer. At some point, Ardyn turns around to stare at them and for just a split second, his eyes look utterly inhuman, like two pieces of coal pressed into his face. Geralt shudders and takes a swig from his ale. Only his imagination, probably. It isn’t until the next day that one of them voices their thoughts, when they take advantage of a brief lull in the usual winter snowstorms to repair one of the neverending leaks on the keep’s roof.

Lambert looks around, making sure that neither Vesemir nor Ardyn are in sight before dropping his voice to a lower register.

“Alright, since nobody else here seems to want to say it oud loud, I will,” he begins, and Geralt is sure he knows where this is going. “Anyone else think that something is off about the kid?”

“I’m-“ Eskel starts before he stops himself. He looks to the side, chewing on his bottom lip.

“What do you mean?” Geralt asks.

“Oh, come on. You must have felt it, too. Seen it, as well.” Lambert makes a motion with his hand, strong enough to almost make him topple from his seat on the slippery roof tiles. Eskel reaches out to steady him, withdrawing his hand almost as quickly when Lamber bristles and shoots him an angry glance. “I know Vesemir loves the kid, but have you seen Ardyn when he isn’t looking? He’s just…strange. The other day I found him in the lab, staring at the wall with the poisons. And things’ve gone missing. My pocketknife, for one. Some empty vials I’d put aside. Food. I’m not imagining this.”

“Well, you weren’t exactly the most _normal_ kid, either,” Eskel objects. “None of us were.”

Lambert huffs. “Yeah, but we were…predictably not normal. Not like _this_.”

Geralt lets out a deep breath. “I’ve noticed it, too,” he admits. “Not as obviously but…it feels strange, somehow, I don’t know.”

Eskel stares at them – not incredulously, not like he doesn’t believe them. There is a small frown between his brows, and he rubs the scarred corner of his lip thoughtfully as he evidently recapitulates the last weeks.

“You might not be wrong,” he finally admits. “But what can we do about it? If we tell Vesemir, he will call us paranoid, too wary to trust by virtue of having been on the Path for decades. And we cannot do anything to the boy.”

“No, we cannot,” Geralt agrees. “But we can pay more attention. Figure out what’s going on. See if we’re only imagining things, before springing into action that might not be warranted.”

Lambert looks rather unhappy at the suggestion, but he does nod in the end, not having a better solution at hand. Eskel is still frowning, evidently having more thoughts on the matter that he isn’t ready to share yet. They return to fixing the roof. The work is treacherous, with the tiles slippery from ice and humidity, but they are making good progress.

That is, until something startles Geralt and one of the tiles beneath his feet that seemed just fine only moments ago suddenly cracks and gives way, causing him to slip and fall. He lets out a shout of pure panic – a fall from this high up would be enough to break even a Witcher’s body – arms flailing desperately, trying to grab hold of something, _anything_ to stop the slide towards his death.

At the last moment, a hand closes around his wrist, arresting his downwards trajectory. For a moment, Geralt just breathes, trying to get his wildly beating heart and laboured breathing back under control. He looks up to see Eskel holding on to him, face as white as a sheet, Lambert with an equally worried expression hovering right behind him.

“I’ve got you, wolf,” Eskel says, sounding quite out of breath himself. “I’ve got you.”

“Thank fucking Melitele that you do,” Lambert adds, carefully clambering down to grab hold of Geralt’s other hand. “Here’s a death I would rather not want to explain to Vesemir.”

Eskel only nods. Together they draw Geralt back up to safety. Just before he sits down to take a deep breath, Geralt catches sight of something from the corner of his eyes – a face, watching him from the window of one of the towers nearby. It’s gone when he looks more closely, but he could have sworn that it was Ardyn.

He shudders.

*

Geralt wakes up with a scream lodged in his throat. He cannot recall the details of his dream, just that it was dark and cold and bloody. He dimly remembers Eskel’s limp, lifeless body in front of his feet, Lambert curled up in a corner around the sword in his gut. Vesemir, blank, dead eyes staring into nothing from where his head had been hacked off his body.

He sits up, trying to fight the rising nausea in his throat and calm the frantic beating of his heart. Nightmares are nothing new, although they usually find him on the Path rather than here. Nightmares of his family’s death aren’t so uncommon, either, but this one was so vivid, so gut-wrenchingly real that he thinks he can still smell a faint echo of death and decay.

Geralt stands up and splashes some cold water in his face, trying in vain to dislodge the knot of fear and unease inside his stomach. There is no way he can go back to sleep now, and so he grabs one of his favourite books and makes his way down into the main hall, to sit in front of the remnants of the fire in the hearth. He finds himself hoping that Ardyn won’t be there, won’t be roaming the halls at night for some reason. Something about meeting the boy alone in the dark sets his teeth on edge.

Nobody disturbs him, however, and Geralt finally begins chasing the nightmares from his thoughts when he can hear steps approaching. They don’t have the right rhythm to be Ardyn’s and besides – he has known Eskel for so long, he would recognise his footfall anywhere.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, when Eskel appears in the circle of light. No doubt Eskel has already heard him too, knows that he’s here.

“Yeah.” Eskel looks down at the chunks of leather and horse tack he is carrying in his hands and laughs. He had evidently been planning on doing some repairs in the light of the fire.

“C’mere.” Geralt pats the seat next to him and Eskel sits down, leaning against him with a sigh.

“Nightmares?” Geralt asks gently.

“Yeah.” Eskel’s hand goes up to his face, stopping himself before he can touch his scars. Geralt doesn’t need to ask what the nightmare was about. “You?”

“Same.” Geralt tilts his head until his cheek comes to rest on Eskel’s hair. He closes his eyes and listens to Eskel’s heartbeat, just a mite faster than his own. Eskel still smells a little bit of fear from the nightmare, and no doubt he does, too. “It felt far too real, this time.”

“Mine, too.” Eskel shudders against him, his heartbeat speeding up for a moment. “I wonder if the others are having nightmares, too. Vesemir has been looking…strange, lately.”

Yes, he has. Despite his old age, Vesemir is usually brimming with strength and health. In the last weeks, however, he has started to look gaunt, deep shadows under his eyes that not even the sunlight is able to dispel. Geralt had once caught him staring outside into the snow – not, per se, unusual, as they are all given to a certain amount of reflection and brooding over the winter months. But he hadn’t even reacted when Geralt had stepped closer and it had taken a hand on his shoulder to startle him out of wherever his thoughts had taken him. Truly _startled_. As if he hadn’t heard Geralt approaching. It worries him more than he likes to admit.

“I know,” is all that Geralt says. No doubt Eskel has observed the same things. “Have your nightmares become more frequent, too?”

“Yes.” Eskel weighs the piece of leather in his palm and frowns. “You don’t think-“

“I don’t know.” Geralt cuts him off. “But I think that, perhaps, it’s time to have a look at the library.”

*

Once, Kaer Morhen had held one of the finest libraries of the Continent, although only the Witchers of the Wolf School and the few selected people they accepted as their guests ever had access to it. The sacking has changed things – the mages had tried to set fire to it, after looting some of the tomes for themselves. It is by sheer luck that over half of them survived, courtesy of the old librarian who’d died defending his beloved books, the cold of winter, and the fact that the magicians were mainly focused on the tomes about magic and mutation only.

Still, the remnants of the library now carry a sad air with them, as most of the more deserted parts of Kaer Morhen do, meant for a larger audience than the pitiful remnants of their school present here now. Geralt moves past the more commonly used bestiaries and books about the monsters roaming the wilds. He has memorised most of them by heart, remembers the countless evenings and nights when he used to sneak into the library and read anything he could get his hands on. Now, he is on the search for something slightly more elusive, something that none of them might have encountered yet.

It takes him two days to find what he is looking for, and when he does, it is in a small tome, filled with the cramped handwriting of a Witcher dead so long that not even Vesemir has probably known him. Geralt takes his time trying to decipher the letters, but when he does, a cold shudder runs down his back. He reads the few paragraphs of importance again, and then a third time, trying to commit every single word of it to memory should anything happen to the little tome in his hands.

He reveals his findings to Lambert and Eskel that night, when Vesemir is tucking Ardyn into bed.

“Are you sure?” Eskel’s eyes are hard, glittering with rage. People tend to underestimate him, seeing only his quiet, serious face and his kindness. He has always held his rage close to his chest, unlike his brothers. But he is capable of terrible anger and Geralt’s revelation has awoken something in him.

“Well, if someone would find out, it was Geralt.” Lambert’s voice is cold and sharp, even as he pays his brother this rare compliment. “It makes sense, though, from everything we’ve seen.”

“Should we tell Vesemir?” Eskel frowns a little.

“No.” Geralt shakes his head. “I’m not sure he would believe us. If I’m right, he’ll have to see it with his own two eyes before he starts believing us.”

“The old man would just get angry,” Lambert says. “We can’t risk it. We can’t risk _Ardyn_ knowing.”

Eskel heaves a deep sigh, but reluctantly agrees with them. They all know that the task in front of them is monumental, and it wouldn’t do to complicate it any further.

“Midinváerne is in two days. The writing says that it will be the best time to do what we have to. We should make preparations.”

They all nod solemnly, Lambert scowling and Eskel still with that expression of icy rage on his face that scares even Geralt. He is glad that it isn’t directed at him. Part of it, he suspects, isn’t even anger at the perpetrator itself, but rage that they dared to disturb the peace of their winter months, to strike here, right at their heart during a time when they should be recovering and gathering strength for another year on the Path. And that they dared to strike at Vesemir of all people – their mentor, their _father_ , the one who has sacrificed so much and seen so many of them die already.

“Good.” Geralt squares his shoulders. “You all know what to do.”

*

Midinváerne brings with it the solemnity that hangs over it every year. When the Keep was still teeming with more life, they used to have a big mourning feast every year, followed by the candle ceremony – one lit for each of the Wolf Witchers that had passed, and a reading of the names of those who had died on the Path and not returned that year. They would tell stories of those that were gone, keeping vigil over the candles until morning, taking care that none of them would blow out. It was said that terrible luck would befall anyone who would let a candle flame die.

Now that their numbers have dwindled and that there are only four of them, the number of candles has grown large and halls never feel emptier than during this one night. They always keep with tradition as well as they can, staying awake all night, helped by copious amounts of White Gull, exchanging stories so old they might already be legends in other parts of the world.

This year’s celebration feels slightly different, with Ardyn in their midst and the nervous energy of what is to come in the air. Vesemir is looking tired and distracted even during the feast, normally the most boisterous part of the day. His movements are uncoordinated and slow even for a normal human and more than once Geralt is ready to jump in and steady the old man should he fall. He exchanges a gaze with his brothers. Eskel’s eyes are hard, glittering with anger and fear, whilst Lambert looks positively murderous. The feast, usually a much livelier affair, passes quietly and quickly, none of them in much of a mood for stories.

The darkness feels like an almost solid thing when they head outside, over into the tower where they always light the candles. Ardyn tags along with them, almost pressed into Vesemir’s side. Geralt’s hand tightens on the grip of the dagger he has hidden away – Vesemir would never allow them to bring their swords, not for this.

He takes a deep breath once they are inside, giving Lambert a small nod.

“Vesemir. Help me with the candles?” Lambert calls out, gesturing for the old wolf to join him. Ardyn looks up to him and makes as if to follow, but Eskel gently grabs his shoulder.

“Ardyn, come help me light the fire.” His voice is soft and kind, betraying nothing. He steers Ardyn towards the opposite wall from Lambert and Vesemir, squaring his shoulders. When Ardyn stares into the fireplace he steps back at full Witcher’s speed and casts the most powerful Yrden he is capable of.

Ardyn whips around, and for a moment there is nothing human about this features. His movements are slowed, and he _hisses_ when he finds himself unable to cross the line towards the Witchers. Eskel continues to pour energy into the sign, fine beads of sweat in his face. Even at the distance, Geralt can feel the energy from it thrumming.

“Eskel!” Vesemir’s voice is loud and sharp, filled with shock and anger. “What in Melitele’s name-“

He begins to stride towards him, until Lambert catches his arm. Vesemir whirls around to face the youngest of his boys and for a moment, Geralt is sure he is going to strike him. He doesn’t, but it is a close thing, and for the first time in a long while, Geralt sees Lambert absolutely speechless.

“Vesemir.” Geralt walks towards them, trying to make his voice sound as reasonable as passable. He hopes that Eskel can hold the circle for a while longer. “You need to listen. That…that thing isn’t Ardyn. It’s not human, either. It’s a drekavac.”

“Lies,” Vesemir snarls. “He is just a boy. A boy who needs our help, who needs not to be caught in a magic trap.” Geralt hasn’t seen him this furious in a long time, perhaps not ever, and he remembers some of the writing he had found about the abilities of a drekavac: _Not only do they feed on life energy, they also cause vivid nightmares in the people they have chosen to haunt. In extreme and prolonged cases, such nightmares and the diminishing of life energy can lead to a warping of the mind…_

“Vesemir, _please_.” He doesn’t know what else he can say to convince him, but he has to try. They will have to kill this thing; but they will have no chance of killing it with Vesemir going against them. “Do you think I, we, would _lie_ to you about something so important?”

He can see Vesemir’s mind working, straining against the path the drekavac’s continued feeding has forced it into. A glint of clarity appears in his eyes and he relaxes slightly in Lambert’s grip. Geralt lets out a relieved sigh.

It is at that exact moment that everything goes to shit.

“Vesemir!” Ardyn’s voice is shrill and high and Vesemir’s head whips around to where the drekavac is still caught in Eskel’s Yrden. He looks like a normal little boy now, eyes big and pleading, and traces of tears on his cheeks. This is bad.

“Please, Vesemir.” Ardyn hiccups and there are more tears on his face. “I don’t know what they’re talking about. It hurts. _It hurts_. Are you going to let them kill me? _Again_?”

Something inside Vesemir seems to break and when he turns to look at Geralt, there is nothing in his eyes but pain and rage.

“Lambert, look out!”

Lambert has evidently had the exact same instinct as Geralt, because he lets go of Vesemir’s arm and jumps backwards, reaching for his own dagger that he has hidden away in his clothes. Just in time, as Vesemir whirls around in a movement that would have broken Lambert’s arm had he not let go. As it is, Vesemir still catches him square in the shoulder with a punch, bolstered by Aard, causing Lambert to reel back. Geralt thinks he can hear the crack of breaking bones, but he isn’t sure.

“Fuck!” Lambert yells, as much with surprise as with pain. Geralt winces, but they’ll have to deal with the emotional fallout of this later. For now, they have to see to it that they eliminate Ardyn as quickly as possible, without injuring or getting injured by Vesemir in the process. Easier said that done.

Vesemir is already halfway across the floor towards Eskel, his entire body suffused with wrath and no sign of his earlier weakness in his movements. Geralt has no doubt that he is seriously going to injure his own son. And no matter what Lambert or Geralt might think, Vesemir would never forgive himself for it. Just as he is unlikely to forgive himself for Lambert’s injury.

“Vesemir!” Geralt intercepts his mentor’s path, the dagger still hidden in his clothes. “Stop. STOP. You need to _listen_ to us, Vesemir. Please.”

He tries to grab him at the shoulders but underestimates the strength and speed in the old Witcher’s body. Vesemir evades his grip and instead plants a foot in Geralt’s stomach in a perfectly executed kick. He follows it up with an elbow to Geralt’s nose, breaking it with a crunch of bone. For a moment, the pain shooting through him is so blinding that Geralt simply drops to the floor, his own blood salty in his mouth. He reaches out at the last moment and manages to grab hold of Vesemir’s leg, causing the old man to stumble. Vesemir whirls around, intent on planting the heel of his boot on Geralt’s arm, when Lambert barrels into him from behind with a shout, bringing them both to fall. Geralt uses the moment of distraction to draw his own dagger.

“Geralt! Lambert!” Eskel’s voice is suffused with pain, panic crawling into his words. “I can’t hold it much longer. You need to do something, now!” Geralt looks up to see that there is blood coming out of his nose and his arm is trembling with the continued strain of holding the Sign. The most disconcerting sight, however, is Ardyn – there is a small smile on his face, now widening into a predator’s grin. 

Geralt wants to shout a warning, but Vesemir’s boots hits his head and for a moment, he sees nothing but stars, dagger falling from his limp fingers. He almost wishes they had put on their armour, but of course they hadn’t. It would have aroused far too much suspicion. It takes Lambert’s and his combined might to keep Vesemir under control. He fights fiercely against their grip, and Geralt isn’t sure for how much longer they can still hold him, injured and trying not to wound him as they are. He sees the pain in Lambert’s eyes when the youngest of their group raises his elbow to smash it into Vesemir’s temple, trying to render him unconscious and buy them the few precious seconds they need.

However, he never gets to follow through on the blow.

A hum and silent surge of energy rip through the air as Eskel’s Yrden sign shatters and he stumbles backwards, barely able to keep himself upright from exhaustion. Despite the cold there are large patches of sweat on his red shirt and there is blood dripping not only from his nose, but his ears as well.

“Eskel!” Geralt shouts, more in desperation than anything else. Beneath him, Vesemir is renewing his efforts to break free, a surprising amount of strength in his body. Geralt and Lambert barely pay any attention to him, however, eyes fastened on Ardyn. The boy’s shape is flickering, contorting, until his fingers become unnaturally long, tipped with claws, and his face looks more like a contorted devil’s muzzle than that of a human being. In all the confusion, it barely registers to Geralt that his medaillon still isn’t vibrating. Ardyn screeches and jumps at Eskel, who is far too exhausted to resist him.

Vesemir has shaken off his sons’ grip, but even he stands transfixed as the drekavac pummels into Eskel, swiping one hand across his chest before burying the other between his ribs. A scream rips its way out of Eskel’s throat as he falls to the ground, hands scrabbling fruitlessly in the air as he tries to dislodge the monster on his chest.

“No!” It takes Geralt a moment to recognise the high-pitched scream as coming from his own throat. Lambert recovers from his shock faster than him, ramming his shoulder into the drekavac with not a thought as to his own injuries. The monster screeches again but is ripped away from Eskel, blood spattering on the floor as Lambert howls out something unintelligible.

Geralt is torn between wanting to see to Eskel, look after Vesemir, and help Lambert kill the monster. Vesemir takes the decision out of his hands as he runs straight towards Lambert and the drekavac. For a single moment Geralt is terrified that he is going to kill Lambert, but then Vesemir takes the dagger that Geralt had dropped earlier and rams it squarely into the monster’s shoulder. The drekavac shrieks at the silver and stops struggling as Geralt drags himself over to Eskel, dread filling his stomach when he sees the blood pooling on the ground beneath his brother.

One look tells him that the situation is dire. Eskel is still breathing, but his heart is hammering and his breaths are no more than short, shallow gasps as blood is filling up his lungs and bubbling in his throat. The drekavac’s claws have left deep marks on his chest, so deep that Geralt thinks he can see the glint of bone. Blood keeps running from the wounds, especially where the monster’s fingers have pierced his lungs.

Lambert sits back on his haunches, breathing heavily, his face pinched with fury and pain and utter panic as he looks over at them and back at the _thing_ that shared their home and fed on their nightmares and lifeforce for the past two months. _Drekavacs don’t stop until everyone is dead_ , the manuscript had said, and more than ever, Geralt wishes that it had been wrong.

Vesemir is kneeling over the drekavac, knees on both of its wrist to pretend its claws from striking him. Geralt can’t see his face from his own position, but his shoulders are hunched, arms trembling as he wrenches the silver dagger out of the thing’s shoulder. As he is looking, the drekavac’s form shivers again, turning back into Ardyn, face stricken with pain and fear.

“Would you really kill me? Would you let me die again?” he asks, and if Geralt didn’t know, if Eskel wasn’t lying next to him slowly drowning in his own blood, he could have sworn it was just a little boy, hurting and terrified.

Vesemir’s shoulders are heaving, but he doesn’t turn around. His entire form tightens when Eskel’s pained gasps reach his ears.

“You are long dead. And you won’t take another of my sons from me.”

He plunges the dagger into the boy’s throat. The drekavac struggles, but Vesemir gathers him up and holds him like he has held all of his children at one point of another until death takes it. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, so quietly that even Geralt can barely hear it. When he lowers the body to the ground and closes its eyes, it is with infinite gentleness.

By now, Lambert has managed to crawl over to where Geralt is pressing his shirt against Eskel’s chest, trying in vain to staunch the bleeding. Lambert is holding one arm tightly against his body and his face is ashen with pain. He makes a low, wounded sound and reaches out towards his brother, fingers stopping just short of Eskel’s face before he snatches them away and keeps digging in the pouch he brought along into the Tower.

“Eskel.” Vesemir’s voice is filled with guilt and grief. His fingers leave bloody smudges on Eskel’s skin as he takes his head in his hands.

“Papa,” Eskel whispers. His eyes are wide with terror and pain as he coughs, desperately trying to breathe, and instead only bringing up more blood. Geralt’s grip tightens around the fabric in his hands. He has never felt so useless before.

Vesemir turns around to Lambert and Geralt can see the glint of tears on his cheek. “We need-“

“White Raffards.” Lambert holds up a small vial, almost triumphantly. “Took some potions, thought they might come in handy,” he explains at Geralt’s questioning glance. “Hold up his head.”

Vesemir’s movements are slow and careful as he moves to cradle his son in his lap, lifting his head so that Lambert can give him the potion.

“Dammit, Eskel, don’t you fucking die on me. Not like this,” Lambert murmurs under his breath as he dribbles half of the liquid between Eskel’s bloody lips and spread the rest over his wounds. Somehow, they get him to swallow the potion, Vesemir helping gently and murmuring soft reassurances under his breath, the same he used to when they were nothing more than small children curled up next to him, injured or sick.

He holds him until Eskel’s body begins to relax, his terrified expression slackening as he slips into the near-death state that the potion causes, focusing all the body’s resources inwards in one last attempt to heal itself. For a long few moments Vesemir just keeps sitting there, shaking hands pressed to Eskel’s rapidly cooling skin. He looks up at them, at Geralt’s bloody face and broken nose, Lambert’s scratched skin and mangled shoulder.

“I-“ he begins to say and stops.

“We need to get Eskel downstairs where it’s warm. Patch up his wounds,” Geralt says, a faint tremor still caught in his voice. They will have all time to stew in their guilt later. Vesemir swallows and nods.

“Yes.”

*

“Ardyn was the last of them to die,” Vesemir says, much later into the night when they sit in the Great Hall next to the warming fire. Geralt’s nose and Lambert’s shoulder have been set, all their scrapes looked after and bandaged, and the blood washed off their skin. Eskel is lying next to them, tucked in between Lambert and Geralt, skin still deathly pale and cold. His occasional heartbeat echoes loudly in their ears, although at least the last breath they heard him take sounded less wet than the ones before.

Vesemir isn’t looking at any of them and staring down at his hands instead, as if they were still coated with the drekavac’s and Eskel’s blood.

“Back when they stormed Kaer Morhen to kill us. He was one of the boys who Bjorn, the potion master, had tried to hide away. He was still alive when I found him, buried underneath the corpses of his classmates, but it was clear there was no way to save him. I carried him all the way to the top of Tower, because it was his favourite place in the keep and just…held him. He was so young. They were all so young.” There are tears on his face again, silently running down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I thought it was a coincidence that the boy looked like him. I didn’t-“ He catches himself again and shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

“Well, yeah, you better be.” Lambert grumbles. One of his hands is never far from Eskel, as if he has to reassure himself that his brother is still here. His other reaches up as if to rub his aching shoulder, deciding against it at the last minute. “If I don’t get back into fighting shape by spring, you’ll have less coin to pay for all your extravagant wishes for coming winter.”

“At least you’re out of stable duty for the foreseeable future,” Geralt mumbles. He isn’t looking forward to the increase in mucking duties over the next few weeks, now that they fall on his and Vesemir’s shoulders alone.

“Ha. There’s advantages to everything, I suppose.” Lambert stretches his back and healthy arm before settling back down again next to Eskel. His gaze, however, goes to Vesemir, who still looks at them with an expression so soft that it breaks Geralt’s heart in two. “Hey, old man, you better stop moping. What’s Eskel going to think when he wakes up and sees you crying over him like an old grandmother?”

“He’ll wonder how I could it ever let it get this far. How I could have hurt him, you,” Vesemir replies, a sigh caught in his chest.

“Nonsense.” Lambert snorts. “I mean, I’d probably carry a grudge like that, yeah. You’re lucky that it was Eskel who almost died because of this entire nonsense. Eskel’d forgive a man for stabbing him through the chest if he only accompanied it with a good sob story. And yours is pretty good, even I have to admit.”

Vesemir laughs at that. A small, wet laugh, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. He looks at Geralt, who only shrugs in response. Lambert is quite right in his assessment.

“I’m pretty sure Eskel _has_ actually forgiven someone for stabbing him once,” he says. “Though I think it was a boy, and it was just his thigh, not his chest. Offered him some coin, even, after the boy made up some sad story about being paid to kill a Witcher and having to starve otherwise.”

Lambert laughs out loud, and after a moment, both Geralt and Vesemir chime in.

“I should go and prepare some breakfast,” Vesemir says, surreptitiously wiping at his eye as he stands up. He hesitates for a moment and then reaches out to ruffle Lambert’s hair. Lambert doesn’t move away, just leans his head against his chest for a brief second with a little smile.

“I’ll help,” Geralt offers. He jostles Vesemir’s shoulder with his own as he joins him. “Lambert can look after Eskel for a while. Entertain him with one of his terrible stories.”

“Fuck you, Geralt!” Lambert yells after them.

*

Several days later, Vesemir goes to retrieve the drekavac’s body late at night. It has reverted from Ardyn’s shape back to the monster, its claws peeking out from beneath the blanket he has wrapped it in. Lambert steps into his path as he crosses the courtyard from the tower to the hastily built pyre laid out in a corner, a torch in hand.

“You were going to burn the body on your own, weren’t you? All nice and quiet? Where we can’t see it?” Lambert asks. Vesemir’s guilty glance in his direction is answer enough.

“Should’ve told us.” Geralt says, stepping out of the shadows.

“Yeah. No way we’d let you do it on your own,” Eskel wheezes from where he is leaning heavily on Geralt’s arm. He is still pale and weak and walking so slow that even an old grandfather could have overtaken him easily, but he insisted on being here, and Geralt knows better than to deny him his wish.

They watch as the body burns, flames sparking high into the sky as they consume the drekavac’s flesh. At some point, they huddle around Vesemir, sharing the warmth of his body, the sounds of four steady heartbeats forming a solid wall against the cold.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I wrote a fic where they /don’t/ fall asleep the end! A major achievement! Astonishing! 
> 
> A couple of points re: the plot – I read about the drekavac in a German book about Eastern European folklore and adjusted the various legends for my own purpose. Let me know if there is anything you disagree with!
> 
> As for White Raffards – I basically needed a name for the potion Geralt uses in the books to help him heal from the ghoul bites, that basically renders him looking like a corpse for a while. A wonderful friend suggested using White Raffards, since it restores so much vitality in the game and has such high toxicity to go with it.


End file.
